The Trials of Draco
by Kraken's Daughter
Summary: Ah, the hardships one man must go through in order to win the heart of his beloved. [oneshot]


**The Trials of Draco**

Anger coursed through Draco's veins as he made his way to the Great Hall. Though the anger's cause lay in himself, the Slytherin found no trouble in taking it out on anyone unfortunate enough to cross his path. Already, he had sent three second-years crying and he wasn't even out of the dungeons yet.

Draco was no idiot; as a matter of fact, he was far more intelligent than the majority of incompetent fools who frequented Hogwarts. Yet, for all his brains, he couldn't figure out how this had come about. This kind of thing just didn't happen to well-to-do, accomplished Death-Eaters such as himself. Just the thought of the fit his father would have if he were to find out was enough to make Draco seriously reconsider his childhood dream of running away with that nice flock of man-eating pixies he'd so enjoyed as a child.

Either way, suicide was not high on Draco's to-do list, so he was going to have to face this problem like a man… as soon as he'd had his daily bowl of _Fairy Puffs_ cereal.

As he munched on his cereal with less than his usual amount of gusto, Draco reflected on his problem. He didn't usually spend this much time being depressed over girls, but he'd recently discovered that heart-breaking, torturous melancholy was a good look for him, so he'd decided to play it up a bit.

The whole problem had arisen a few nights ago. He'd been quietly enjoying his bath, having finally decided to make use of the Super Secret Evil Death-Eater Bubble Bath the Dark Lord had given him for Christmas, when he'd had an epiphany of sorts. In that one moment of clarity, Draco understood the strange feeling that had been plaguing him for a while. He was in love and the object of his desires was none other than Hermione Granger. How this had come about was what he couldn't put his immaculately-manicured finger on.

And now he had to tell her, because Malfoys always got what they wanted… even if what they wanted was the affections of a Muggle-born girl with abnormally voluminous hair and a deep-rooted contempt for the Malfoy in question.

Draco was certain that getting Hermione's attention and even love would be no problem for him. After all, he hadn't been named Smoothest, Sexiest Slytherin of the Year, three years in a row and counting, for nothing. The main obstacle would be Hermione's dumb friends. He could just picture that git Weasley's ears getting a healthy vermilion glow and the Boy-Wonder-who-wouldn't-friggin'-die-despite-facing-wizards-with-more-talent-and-power-in-their-little-finger-than-there-is-in-his-entire-being yelling half-assed insults at him in the typical fashion of enraged Griffindors. No, Draco didn't want that; he would have to catch her alone.

Draco's first plan was to pass Hermione a note confessing his undying love for her during History class. Unfortunately for him, the note had ended up on the desk of Millicent Bulstrode, who was repeating the class for the second time and still couldn't remember which magical race had participated in the Goblin Wars. He'd spent the remainder of the day avoiding her until he could _Obliviate_ her later in the evening.

The next day, Draco had tried writing Hermione a love letter and sending it to her by owl, but found it clashed too much with his image, so he wrote an anonymous death-threat to Dumbledore instead.

Sending Goyle to inform Hermione of his feelings was also a failure. His three-word message had apparently overloaded Goyle's one-digit-IQ brain and he had been found huddled in a janitor's closet the next morning, muttering something about a head-ache.

Having come to the conclusion that there was no other way to go about it, Draco decided to tell Hermione that he loved her himself. With that in mind, the love-struck Slytherin finished his cereal and headed for the library, where he was sure to find the bushy-haired object of his affections.

Hermione was indeed in the library, rereading _Hogwarts: A History_ for the 65th time, since she'd been unable to recall the content of page 248 the previous night and had decided that her knowledge had grown rusty. Also, she was avoiding Ron and Harry, because she was in a particularly bad mood this morning. After all, she had been named Geekiest, Grumpiest Griffindor of the Year just yesterday.

Hermione was just finishing the chapter on all the toilet paper brands ever having been used in the Hogwarts washrooms, when a delicate, but definitely masculine hand was placed on the table before her. Looking up, Hermione noticed that the hand was attached to an exceptionally dreamy-looking Malfoy.

'_Great. This is just what I need! And he's got that irresistible heart-breaking, torturous melancholy look going on!'_ was what Hermione thought.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" was what she said.

"I have to talk to you, Hermione." Draco hoped the look in his eyes wasn't too pleading.

"Well, I don't want to talk to you. And who exactly gave you the right to use my first name?" Hermione hoped the look in her eyes was murderous enough to make him go away, but to no avail.

"Listen Hermione, this is important. I lo…"

"Oh, let me guess," Hermione cut Draco off. "We dirty Mudbloods aren't good enough to use the same library as you and you and your Death-Eater friends will attack us and make us eat our socks while singing the Hogwarts school song for kicks!"

Hermione's voice was growing shriller and louder by the syllable. Everyone in the library had forgotten their books and was staring fixedly at the scene in front of them. Madam Pince was making her way to them in an alarming speed and with an expression that could melt butter. Hermione knew she was being irrational, but really, with just five months to go until exams, she was under a lot of stress.

"Well, you know what," she continued, "you can just go stick a Flobberworm up your…"

"I love you!" The silence that followed Draco's declaration was of epic proportions. Even Madam Pince didn't notice the particularly rare and antique books she'd been holding drop to the floor in a pile of scattered parchment.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Well, I hope you guys liked it. This is for my friend Morganne, who likes this pairing, in gratitude for the Spanish notes she gave me. 


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